 | III.
MAKES ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE WILLIAMS FAMILY. Coupon bonds, and other stories |  |
3. III.
MAKES ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE WILLIAMS FAMILY.
Helpless and gasping, Fessenden's was unfastened, and
slipped down the African's back upon a seat placed to
receive him. He still clung to the umbrella, which he
endeavored to keep spread over him, while he stared
around with stupid amazement at the dim room and the
array of black faces.
And now the excited urchin began to caper and sing: —
Jumped upon a nigger's back, thought it was a hoss!'
“Father,” said William, with wounded dignity, — for
he was something of a gentleman in his way, — “I wish
you 'd discipline that child, or else give me permission to
chuck him.”
“Joseph!” said the father, with a stern shake of his
big black head at the boy, “here 's a stranger in the
house! Walk straight, Joseph!”
Which solemn injunction Joseph obeyed in a highly
offensive manner, by strutting off in imitation of William's
dandified air.
By this time the aged negro in the corner had become
fully roused to the consciousness of a guest in the house.
He came forward with slow, shuffling step. He was
almost blind. He was exceedingly deaf. He was withered
and wrinkled in the last degree. His countenance
was of the color of rust-eaten bronze. He was more than
a hundred years old, — the father of the old woman, the
grandfather of the middle-aged man, and the great-grandfather
of William, Joseph, and the girls. He was muffled
in rags, and wore a little cap on his head. This he
removed with his left hand, exposing a little battered
tea-kettle of a bald pate, as with smiling politeness he
reached out the other trembling hand to shake that of the
stranger.
“Welcome, sah! Sarvant, sah!”
He bowed and smiled again, and the hospitable duty
was performed; after which he put on his cap and shuffled
back into his corner, greatly marvelled at by the gazing
beggar-boy.
The girls and their mother now bestirred themselves to
get their guest something to eat. The tin teapot was
set on the stove, and hash was warmed up in the spider.
In the mean time William somewhat ruefully took off his
wet Sunday coat, and hung it to dry by the stove, interpolating
affectionate regrets for the soiled garment with
the narration of his adventure.
“It was the merest chance my coming that way,” he
explained; “for I had got started up the other street,
when something says to me, `Go by Gingerford's! go by
Judge Gingerford's!' so I altered my course, and the
result was, just as I got against the Judge's gate I was
precipitated over this here person.”
“I know what made ye!” spoke up the boy, with an
earnest stare.
“What, sir, if you please?”
“The angels!”
“The — the what, sir?”
“The angels! I seen 'em!” says Fessenden's.
This astounding announcement was followed by a
strange hush. Bill forgot to smooth out the creases of
his coat, and looked suspiciously at the youth whom it
had served as a saddle. He wondered if he had really
been ridden by the Devil.
The old woman now interfered. She was at least seventy
years of age. The hair of her head was like mixed
carded wool. Her coarse, cleanly gown was composed of
many-colored, curious patches. The atmosphere of thorough
grandmotherly goodness surrounded her. In the
twilight sky of her dusky face twinkled shrewdness and
good-humor; and her voice was full of authority and
kindness.
“Stan' back here now, you troubles!” pushing the children
aside. “Did n't none on ye never see nobody afore?
This 'ere child 's got to be took keer on, and that mighty
soon! Gi' me the comf'table off 'm the bed, mammy.”
“Mammy” was the mother of the children. The
“comf'table” was brought, and she and her husband
helped the old negress wrap Fessenden's up in it, from
head to foot, wet clothes and all.
“Now your big warm gret-cut, pappy!”
“Pappy” was her own son; and the “gret-cut” was
his old, gray, patched and double-patched surtout, which
now came down from its peg, and spread its broad flaps,
like brooding wings, over the half - drowned human
chicken.
“Now put in the wood, boys! Pour some of that 'ere
hot tea down his throat. Bless him, we 'll sweat the cold
out of him! we 'll give him a steaming!”
She held with her own hand the cracked teacup to the
lad's lips, and made him drink. Then she pulled up the
comforter about his face, till nothing of him was visible
but his nose and a curl or two of saturated tow. Then she
had him moved up close to the glowing stove, like a huge
chrysalis to be hatched by the heat.
The dozing centenarian now roused himself again, and,
perceiving the little nose in the big bundle on the other
side of the chimney, was once more reminded of the
sacred duties of hospitality. So he got upon his trembling
old legs, pulled off his cap, and bowed and smiled as
before, with exquisite politeness, across the stove. “Sarvant,
sah! Welcome, sah!” And he sat down and dozed
again.
Fessenden's was not in a position to return the courteous
salute. The old woman had by this time got his
feet packed into the stove-oven, and he was beginning to
smoke.
“O Bill! just look a' Joe!” cried one of the girls.
Bill left smoothing his broadcloth, and, turning up the
whites of his eyes, uttered a despairing groan. “O, that
child! that child! that child!” — his voice running up
into a wild falsetto howl.
The child thus passionately alluded to had possessed
himself of Bill's genteel silk hat, which had been tenderly
put away to dry. It had been sadly soaked by the rain,
and bruised by the flopping umbrella which Fessenden's
had unhappily attempted to hold over it. And now Joe
had knocked in the crown, whilst getting it down from its
peg with the broom. He had thought to improve its
appearance by stroking the nap the wrong way with his
sleeve. Lastly, putting it on his head, he had crushed
the sides together to prevent its coming quite down over
his eyes and ears and resting on his shoulders. And there
of the hat with it at every step, as he strutted around the
room in emulation of his brother's elegant style.
“My name's Mr. Bill Williams, Asquare!” simpered the
little satirist. “Some folks call me Gentleman Bill, 'cause
I 'm so smart and good-looking, sar!”
Gentleman Bill picked up the jack with which he had
pulled off his wet boots, and waited for a good chance to
launch it at Joe's head. But Joe kept behind his grandmother,
and proceeded with his mimicry.
“Nobody knows I 'm smart and good-looking 'cept me,
and that 's why I tell on 't, sar; that 's the reason I
excite the stircumstances, sar!” He remembered Bill's
saying he would “recite the circumstances,” and this was
as near as he could come to the precise words. “I 'm a
gentleman tailor; that 's my perfession, sar. Work over
to the North Village, sar. Come home Sat'day nights to
stop over Sunday with the folks, and show my good
clo'es. How d' 'e do, sar? Perty well, thank ye, sar.”
And Joe, putting down the umbrella, in order to lift the
ingulfing hat from his little round, black, curly head with
both hands, made a most extravagant bow to the chrysalis.
“Old granny!” hoarsely whispered Bill, “you just
stand out of the way once, while I propel this boot-jack!”
“Old granny don't stan' out o' the way oncet, for you
to frow no boot-jack in this house! S'pose I want to see
that child's head stove in? Which is mos' consequence,
I 'd like to know, your hat, or his head? Hats enough in
the world. But that 'ere head is an oncommon head, and
bless the boy, if he should lose that, I do'no' where he 'd
git another like it! Come, no more fuss now! I got to
make some gruel for this 'ere poor, wet, starvin' critter.
That hash a'n't the thing for him, mammy, — you 'd
that 'll warm his in'ards, and make him sweat, bless him!
— Joey! Joey! give up that 'ere hat now!”
“Take it then! Mean old thing, — I don't want it!”
Joe extended it on the point of the umbrella; but just
as Bill was reaching to receive it, he gave it a little toss,
which sent it into the chip-basket.
“Might know I 'd had on your hat!” and the little
rogue scratched his head furiously.
“I shall certainly massacre that child some fine morning!”
muttered Bill, ruefully extricating the insulted article
from the basket. “O my gracious! only look at that,
now, Creshy!” to his sister. “That 's an interesting object,
is n't it? for a gentleman to think of putting on to
his head Sunday morning!”
“O Bill!” cried Creshy, “just look a' Joe ag'in!”
Whilst he was sorrowfully restoring his hat to its pristine
shape, he had been robbed of his coat. The thief had
run with it behind the bed, where he had succeeded in
getting into it. The collar enveloped his ears. The
skirts dragged upon the floor. He had buttoned it, to
make it fit better; but there was still room in it for two
or three boys. He had got on his father's spectacles and
the beggar's straw hat. He looked like a frightful little old
misshapen dwarf. And now rolling up the sleeves to
find his hands, and wrinkling the coat outrageously at
every movement, he advanced from his retreat, and began
to dance a pigeon-wing, amid the convulsive laughter of
the girls.
“O my soul! my soul!” cried Bill, his voice inclining
again to the falsetto. “Was there ever such an imp of
Satin? Was there ever —”
Here he made a lunge at the offender. Joe attempted
to escape, but getting his feet entangled in the superabundant
killed.
“Good enough for you!” said his mother. “I wish
you would get hurt!”
“What you wish that for?” cried the old grandmother,
rushing to the rescue, brandishing a long iron spoon with
which she had been stirring the gruel. “Can't nobody
never have no fun in this house? Bless us! what 'ud we
do, if 't wa'n't for Joey, to make us laugh and keep our
sperits up? Jest you stan' back now, Bill! — 'd ruther
you 'd strike me 'n see ye hit that 'ere boy oncet!”
“He must let my things be, then,” said Bill, who
could n't see much sport in the disrespectful use made of
his wearing apparel. — “Here, you! surrender my property!”
“Laws! you be quiet! You 'll git yer cut ag'in. Only
jest look at him now, he 's so blessed cunning!”
For Joe, reassured by his grandmother, had stopped
screaming, and gone to tailoring. He sat cross-legged on
one of the unlucky coat-skirts, and pulled the other up on
his lap for his work. Then he got an imaginary thread,
and, putting his fingers together, screwed up his mouth,
and looked over the spectacles, sharpening his sight, —
“Like an old tailor to his needle's eye.”
who was sensitive touching his vocation.
“I do declare, father! how you can smile, seeing that
child carrying on in this shape, is beyond my comprehension!”
“Joseph!” said Mr. Williams, good-naturedly, “I
guess that 'll do for to-night. Come, I want my spectacles.”
He had sat down to his book again. He was a slow,
thoughtful, easy, cheerful man, whom suffering and much
quite broken-spirited. His voice was indulgent and gentle,
with that mellow richness of tone peculiar to the
negro. After he had spoken, the laughter subsided; and
Joe, impressed by the quiet paternal authority, quickly
devised means to obey without appearing to do so. For
it is not so much obedience, as the manifestation of obedience,
that is repugnant to human nature, — not in children
only, but in grown folks as well.
Joe disguised his compliance in this way. He got up,
took off the beggar's hat, put the spectacles into it, holding
his hand on a rip in the crown to keep them from
falling through, and passed it around, walking solemnly in
his brother's abused coat.
“I 'm Deacon Todd,” said he, “taking up a collection to
buy Gentleman Bill a new cut: gunter make a missionary
of him!”
He passed the hat to the women and the girls, all of
whom pretended to put in something.
“I ha'n't got nothin'!” said Fessenden's when it came
to him; “I 'm real sorry! but I 'll give my hat!” — earnest
as could be.
When the hat came to Mr. Williams, he quietly put in
his hand and took out his glasses.
“Here, I 've got something for you; I desire to contribute,”
said Gentleman Bill.
But Joe was shy of his brother.
“O, we don't let the missionary give anything!” he
said. “Here 's the hat what you 're gunter to wear; —
give it to him, Creesh!”
Bill disdained the beggar's contribution; but, in his
anxiety to seize Joe, he suffered his sister to slip up behind
him and clap the wet, ragged straw wreck on his head.
“O Bill! O Bill!” screamed the girls with merriment,
father indulged in a silent, inward laugh.
“Good!” said Fessenden's; “he may have it!”
Bill, watching his opportunity, made a dash at the pretending
Deacon Todd. That nimble and quick - witted
dwarf escaped as fast as his awkward attire would permit.
The bed seemed to be the only place of refuge, and he
dodged under it.
“Come out!” shouted Bill, furious.
“Come in and git me!” screamed Joe, defiant.
Bill, if not too large, was far too dignified for such an
enterprise. So he got the broom and began to stir Joe
with the handle, not observing, in his wrath, that, the
more he worried Joe, the more he was damaging his own
precious broadcloth.
“I 'm the lion to the show!” cried Joe, rolling and
tumbling under the bed to avoid the broom. “The keeper
's a punchin' on me, to make me roar!”
And the lion roared.
“He 's a gunter come into the cage by-'m-by, and put
his head into my mouth. Then I 'm a gunter swaller
him! Ki! hoo! hoo! oo!”
He roared in earnest this time. Bill, grown desperate,
had knocked his shins. As long as he hit him only on
the head, the king of beasts did n't care; but he could
n't stand an attack on the more sensitive part.
“Jest look here, now!” exclaimed the old negress, with
unusual spirit; “gi' me that broom!”
She wrenched it from Bill's hand.
“Perty notion, you can't come home a minute without
pesterin' that boy's life out of him!”
You see, color makes no difference with grandmothers.
Black or white, they are universally unjust, when they
come to decide the quarrels of their favorites.
“Great lubberly fellow like you, 'busin' that poor
babby all the time! Come, Joey! come to granny, poor
child!”
It was a sorry-looking lion that issued whimpering from
the cage, limping, and rubbing his eyes. His borrowed
hide — namely, Bill's coat — had been twisted into marvellous
shapes in the scuffle; and, being wet, it was
almost white with the dust and lint that adhered to it.
Bill threw up his arms in despair; while Joe threw his,
great sleeves and all, around granny's neck, and found
comfort on her sympathizing bosom.
| III.
MAKES ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE WILLIAMS FAMILY. Coupon bonds, and other stories | |